The magical wind
Had cast its spell
But your hair was in your face
And your eyes would peer through

As soon as the clouds broke
And the lightning took the silence away

I always thought the sky could be blue
In those paintings, the clouds were out of tune
They were grey like my heart
They were white at times

The blue sky never knew
When the rain would pour
Or if the sun was to come out
If the people were there

Within the nook of a dell,
a good distance
from obloquy
and inhibition,
floating on water,
listening to birdsong
descend down
the stream
of a musical scale.
Don’t need to believe
or even consent to
any critique,
any look-see,
you are free and light
on the surface,
buoyant and supple
beneath.

Languid movements,
reminiscent
of a weir,
cascade
and trickle,
springing forth
to orchestrate an overture.
This feeling is
beatific,
euphoric,
the moment one of
nonpareil,
bijou,
objet d’art,
and these transports
are yours only
to involuntarily
succumb to and relive:

Rhythmic waves
quivering
upon your shore,
as your limbs and spine camber.
It’s no wonder
you often lift
your voice in song.

Nature gives
It takes
You remind me
Of the nurturing
Arms of the breeze
It took my breath away
But gave you a stride
In the cold winter
Under the stare
Often brushing the trees cold and bare